My crutches only carry me so far,
Before the house I’ve painted topples;
Some precious little mind-scene obliterated.
I don’t know anything; of this I’m certain.

It’s easy to find a target, or several,
And feel heroic loosing arrows,
But we really jab ourselves with lies.
We don’t change; we blame.

Black and white blur into undiscernible grey.
Hatred’s roots twine around mind puzzles.
What treat on outstretched palm is it this time?
They can convince you of anything; take care.

Death and birth parent and offspring,
Pulling away decayed vegetation with
Shaky hands. What is growing?
I can feel change; it’s inevitable.